About five to six years ago I sent Chuck Palahniuk a letter. In it, as directed by him, I discussed resolutions for the forthcoming year. Somewhat of a blur to my mind, they pertained to learning languages, memorising the faces of loved ones, and writing something (anything) every day. There was a sprinkling of the formal/everyday resolutions, too – the better eating, the better attitude, bettering the better. And a note to an invasive procedure I had undertaken some months previous. An appeal to his senses, I might have thought.

Without flinch, I will admit to not having started, never mind realising the fruition of, any of those resolutions. That brings sadness. To enhance the bitterness of these failures is to also admit that a sizeable portion of my letter read as a miniature review of all his work to that date. “Book A was better than Book D, but Book C? Wow. Book C was great! Book B was a tough read, though.” I still can’t quite fathom my thought process at the time. Why did that seem like a reasonable idea?

So to my surprise, a package! And inside, a letter, too. A letter divulging the secret to his work. The real meaning. The sacrifice of the one for the greater. The Jesus-factor. Beneath the propped letter, a copy of his debut novel (it’s the film poster cover; a pet peeve if ever there was one) – autographed inside, “Daniel, let the dogs and rocks work for you. Chuck Palahniuk/Chucky P.” My power animal as chosen by Chuck? A dog. The rocks? A hand made necklace of stones that would bring me luck, and my named etched across fourteen of them. The remaining package consisted of fake vomit, carrot seeds (“Guts”), chocolate sweets, confetti, fake cheques, and other joke items – and maybe some bouncy balls, too.

This is why I will never leave Chuck Palahniuk behind like I have done to many others of my late teenage years. Firstly, his work alone means he’ll travel and age well, but such gestures are hard to dismiss. Getting over the kindness of a stranger is a task. A pointless one, but a task nonetheless. Gestures, of the good kind, is my New Year’s resolution. More numerous, more intentional. [You are not your fucking CD collection.]